Luscious Cherry Sweet
by Arkeis07
Summary: The Runaways Fic. Joan Jett/Cherie Currie. Just another night on the road, living the rock n' roll. Warnings: heavy cursing, drug use, sexual themes.


Saw _The Runaways_ with Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning, absolutely loved it. Super fun, I highly recommend it. I felt empowered as a woman (and turned on as a gay) when I left the theater.

**Title: **Luscious Cherry Sweet  
**Fandom: **The Runaways, Joan Jett/Cherie Currie  
******Rating: R for sex drugs and dirty mouths**  
Words: ~2000

The skid of crushed dust under Joan's feet makes her feel unsteady as she pushes her way out of the station wagon after Sandy. Cramped and crowded in the car for several hundred miles, the band was by now in desperate need of some alone time from each other. Lita stomped out of the car and slammed the car door harshly, making a beeline for the front office of the cheap highway motel, kicking up a trail of dust behind her. Everyone knew the consequences of getting in between Lita and whatever shithole room awaited her after hours of her habit of sleeping in that awkward curled up position in the back seat, so instead of doing his _job_ and helping to unload the trailer, Scottie the roadie ran to follow Lita to the front desk. He was after all, the only one with the damn cash.

The rest of the band tiredly and achingly removed their wrinkled duffels and crusty old suitcases from the car, trudging a dirge of teenage malaise over the dust and rock of the Arizona parking lot. The setting sun glares harshly in Joan's black sunglasses, so much that her eyes actually tear with a burning sensation as they try to adjust to the sudden darkness of the motel room when she crosses the threshold. Once again, two beds separated by a desk lamp and facing a repair shop discounted television set is what awaits them, to be shared by the five girls with shitty attitudes.

"The fucking roadie always gets his own room, what the shit is this?" Robin complains bitterly.

"He keeps tryin' to tell ya, Robin, you're more than welcome to shack it up with him," Sandy replies with a dirty wink and an even dirtier hand gesture.

"Fuck you, blondie."

"Hey hey, c'mon now. Pick your spot and shut up, we've all heard enough of your blah shit today," Joan groans as she puts her stuff next to Cherie's, kicks the bed stand with her black boot, and pushes aside the musty curtains to open the small window of the room.

"Hey!" Lita yells with her diaphragm. The room gives her attention. "I need booze. Who's comin'?" and she promptly steps outside without waiting for a response. Sandy follows immediately after throwing her bag on the floor, dragging Robin by the elbow as she leaves.

Despite her tired body, Joan steps outside and wanders the dust covered ground, looking west to watch the sun set beyond the horizon. Struggling to release her cigarettes from her tight jeans, she kicks the ground with the heel of her boot and yanks the package out of her back pocket, lighting up and taking a slow drag.

She shifts from foot to foot as she sees Lita, Sandy and Robin cross the road, with Scottie in tow, headed for the small shop with bars on the windows, a flashing neon sign detailing the premium choice of Budweiser in stock. The girls will probably get Scottie to grab the biggest bottle of firewater they can find, then drink most of it before he's even buzzed. Life on the road, so charming.

Joan's attention is brought to the rough and frayed Band-Aid hanging by just the cusp of her forefinger, her thumb flicking at it incessantly. Lifting her finger up to inspect it, she flexes it, and winces. She sheared the top of her nail right off last night, going a bit too heavy on "Queens of Noise". But it didn't matter anyway. The line of smack she snorted before the set sent her reeling into the Rock 'n Roll, and fuck if the crowd didn't think she was all the more badass for continuing to play after, blood speckling her guitar and shining in the stage lights.

A flash of the orange sun reflected catches her left eye, and she looks to find it's a tabby orange cat, pawing at some trash next to a bush nearby. The cat looks up and seems to give Joan the "fuckyou" stare. Joan scoffs and kicks the dirt again. Still looking at the sassy cat, Joan notices a collar around its neck, faded and torn. It belongs to someone. Or did. Joan doubts anyone could love that cat, mangey and scratched from fights. It's better off a stray. A runaway.

Joan's attention is drawn behind her as she hears the smacking of lips. Cherie walks up and hangs an arm around Joan's neck, her lips pursed and cheeks hollow as she sucks on something; a red hard candy, Joan discovers, when Cherie opens her mouth to roll the sweet with her tongue to the other side.

"Cherry," Cherie says with a wink.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Swiped it from the last gas station counter. You want one?"

"Not really into candy," Joan smirks as she looks back at the sun, her vision orange and yellow for moment.

"Not this kind, at least," Cherie giggles in a way that is absolutely not girlish nor innocent.

"Mhmm," Joan replies, her gaze falling to the ground as her lips rise in smile.

Cherie suddenly spits out the candy, and Joan watches it roll across the dirt road, gathering dust and pebbles to its sticky surface. The blonde smoothly steals Joan's cig from her fingers and takes a drag, holding it in then blowing a misshapen smoke ring from her lollipop lips. Her flashy sunglasses look good in this sunlight, Joan thinks. But really, Cherie's the only good looking thing Joan's seen in this place.

"C'mon, let's go to the room," Cherie calls with a sweet cherry tone, flicking the used cigarette to the ground, where it smolders hotly. Turning back, the neon sign attached to the motel billboard blinks sporadically, the "L" light completely burnt out, leaving the place to be dubbed in true punk fashion, the "Seep Away Motel." Joan chuckles slightly at this as she follows Cherie's dusty trail back to the room.

Not a foot inside the doorway is when the room's beige phone begins ringing loudly. Joan looks at Cherie suspiciously before sitting on the bed and picking up, a hoarse "Hello?" coming softly from her throat.

"Hey fucktwat, you all settled in? Nevermind that I don't really give a shit, but what I _do_ give a shit about is your tour, so listen up, I got news." The voice of the Runaway's "manager" Kim Fowley sounds off harshly in Joan's ear, but she can tell he's excited about something, so it's either really fucking great or really fucking disgusting.

"Yea, go ahead, I'm listening."

"Well, long story short, your profits from the past few gigs on tour actually exceed my high expectations, so we're in the running for a real jumpstart here. Talked to some people, had a few meetings, swallowed a few drinks and sucked more than my fair share of dicks, but –"

Joan's eyes get distracted at this point by the way Cherie is taking off her shoes and black vest, curling up on the bed opposite the brunette and playing with the holes in her blue jeans. Cherie lays her head down and looks up at Joan, her face upside down, her eyes suggesting boredom and a plethora of other feelings that Joan doesn't think she'll ever be able to read.

After picking at her nails for a minute, the young teen restlessly flops upright and grabs Joan's bag, looking through the pockets and zippers.

Fowley is still going on about how he managed to bring this amazing news to fruition, news which he still has not enlightened Joan to, so Joan kicks the bed and mouths, "What're you doing?"

"You have anything strong? I need something." Cherie replies automatically.

"Booze?" Joan asks quietly, Fowley unaware. "Something _strong_," Cherie emphasizes with her eyebrows.

"Ah, yea, here," Joan motions for the bag, and pulls out a little baggie of white pills from the bottom. Cherie's face lights up and she sits next to Joan, waiting for her to share.

" – so I managed to grab them by the balls, and it's official. The Runaways are a fucking phenomenon overseas, and they're going to Japan."

Joan stops moving and her mouth drops open. "What?" Cherie asks curiously.

"No joke, man?" Cherie puts her face next to Joan and the phone and balances on her knees, her hand squeezing Joan's leg.

"I don't fucking joke about fame, kid. You dogfuckers are going to sellout bigtime in motherfucking Japan and it's gonna send you to the _TOP!_" Fowley cuts off to laugh at his own ingeniousness, then continues. "It's still in the works with all that management crap, you leave that to me, but by this summer you'll be sipping the finest sake and fucking the craziest Asians, I guarantee!"

"That's incredible man, fucking incredible!" Joan exclaims with a hand in her hair, sharing a bright smile with Cherie.

"Yea, so pass it on, but don't get lazy. You're still on tour, don't fuck up these last shows, you got it? Go get some sleep, dogfuckers. And by sleep, I mean drugs and sex toys." And with that, Kim Fowley's voice clicks and disappears at the other end. Joan, still in slight disbelief, holds the phone close to her ear, leaving a white mark on her face, before Cherie shakes her shoulders crazily and screams in excitement, jumping up and bouncing on the bed.

"Japan! Fucking Japan!"

"I KNOW!" Joan slams the phone down and grabs Cherie's legs, dropping her to the bed and screaming into her side. A few moments later the girl's laughter dies away with the last sliver of sunset color streaming through the window, and Cherie sits back up and rubs Joan's knee. "Celebrate?"

Joan grins and grabs her little baggie of pills, picking one between her fingers and sliding it into Cherie's open and wet mouth, the blodne's lips closing around the digits and sucking, before swallowing the pill. Cherie does the same for Joan and then jumps to the floor, spinning around in circles and reaching her hands to the ceiling. Her laughter comes back, infectious, and Joan stands up to dance with her, hugging her body close and tight.

Swaying close, their laughter quiets and their smiles soften; Joan lifts her bandaged finger to Cherie's lips, tracing the red, smudging the edges. Cherie opens her lips in a playful sneer and bites the finger, causing Joan to wince through her smile, her teeth biting her bottom lip. She chuckles softly before pushing away from Cherie and facing the bed, absent-mindedly rubbing her palms together before looking over her shoulder to the young blonde, who still has that confident sneer across her face.

There's an excitement in Joan's chest that resembles the rumbling of her guitar through stage amps.

When Cherie takes a flying leap to Joan's chest, her lips colliding with the brunette's hard and fast, there's a clash of symbols. They fall to the bed in a heap, Cherie's illegally sweet hands running from Joan's illegally petite ass down to her knee, bringing her black jeaned leg up to wrap around the Cherry Bomb's waist.

Cherie's touch feels too good to be right, so Joan revels in the wrong, her hands thrumming and drumming over luscious sweet skin and luxuriant blonde hair. Cherie's hands find their way to spots that send Joan out of control, reeling and writhing in heat and sweat.

Joan traces a road map across pale white skin, much like the one they have been trekking across the country, winding stretches of pale thoroughfare, freckled with pit stops of cheap booze and unhealthy food.

Up and over, down and through, in and out, with only one goal in mind; reaching the top.

With the swell of drugs and rock 'n roll blurring her mind, Joan moans deliciously, enjoying the pleasure of being on the cusp of world-wide fame and the edge of desire.

The building excitement finally overflows and Joan's spiraling in ecstasy, holding Cherie close as she slithers over Joan's skin, warm and slick. She kisses the sweet candy lips of her bandmate and sighs; all she ever could want right now, in this moment, is a cigarette. Which Cherie delivers instantly, lighting up as she curls into Joan's side, then shares the stick.

Right now it doesn't matter that every place they've stayed is dingy and slimy, every venue filled with scum assholes and spilled beer. The future's wide open, and all the shit they've been through, it's paid off. That crazy motherfucker Kim Fowley, the broken homes and drunken fathers, the hate and the disrespect, the Runaways have suffered but come out on top.

And now it's clearer than it's ever been; this is what Joan was meant to do. She's a rocker. She's a survivor, fuck yea.

~Fin~

Seriously, go watch the fucking film. And go buy the fucking CD. KStew and DFann sing their own songs. It's super hot. I mean, fucking hot.

Thanks for reading.


End file.
